


Left Unsaid

by Hopeless_Wanderer_Adventures



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, M/M, Pining, Spoilers, TMA, jonmartin, mag138 made me feel things so Jon has to feel things too, my first fic please don't bully me, no actual jonmartin interaction, post mag138, post-episode: ep138 the architecture of fear, spoilers up to mag138
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:48:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24403093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopeless_Wanderer_Adventures/pseuds/Hopeless_Wanderer_Adventures
Summary: Set in s4: Jon gets a chance to listen to one of the tapes recorded for him by Martin, but gets a little caught up on an unfinished sentence.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 92





	Left Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first TMA fic! short drabble based off of tumblr user speakerunfolding's GREAT comic following mag138 and how Jon reacted to some words that were(n’t) said. Martin doesn't actually feature in this fic (outside of his voice on a tape recorder), this is mostly just some serious pining time for Jon. Feel free to leave a comment if you like this fic!

The chill London air bites into the bared skin of Jon’s arms as he sits on the back steps of The Magnus Institute. The world feels eerily quiet for a city after sundown, but then again, most things seem eerie these days; it makes him long for a time when he could callously dismiss any fears of the things that lurk in the dark, beyond the “safety” of the Ceaseless Watcher. 

A thin trail of smoke catches the light of the nearby streetlamp as Jon takes another drag of his cigarette, the burn deep in his chest mirroring the flare of the orange embers as they break off and spark against the concrete. The nicotine does little to calm his nerves anymore, but old habits tend to die hard. He feels the corner of his lips twitch in a hint of a smile when he idly wonders what _Martin_ would think of him smoking again— this time he knows the sharp pain in his chest at the thought is an entirely _different_ kind than what he’s grown accustomed to in the years since becoming Head Archivist. The deep ache, the _longing_ , that seems to radiate through his body and settle deep in his bones, hasn’t left him since waking up. Part of him wishes he never had— if for everyone else’s sake, or just out of his own selfish desire to escape, he isn’t really sure. 

He misses the simplicity of the world before, he misses Sasha, and Tim, he misses sleep and _safety_ and being able to just go home to his own damn flat and he misses being human, wishes he could see anything other than a sorry excuse for a monster in the mirror. But more than that, more than anything, he _misses Martin_ ; truly, deeply misses Martin. Maybe if he hadn’t been such a bloody prat, maybe if he had just said something sooner, before The Unknowing, he wouldn’t have been so quick to run off to Peter Lukas, to the Lonely. Maybe—

Jon needed to shut down that self-destructive spiral. 

It was too late for self-pity, there was too much on the line now. He had too much he didn’t know, so many missing puzzle pieces to fit together before he could understand what else Elias was planning. He swallowed down the last puff of his dying cigarette before putting it out on the concrete step next to him, his eyes fixing on the tape player in his other hand. Another tape from Martin. He heaved a deep sigh before clicking play and resting it on the edge of the railing, letting his other thoughts quiet as he listens to the familiar sound of Martin’s voice spill from the tinny speaker of the cassette player. 

_“Martin Blackwood, assistant to Peter Lukas, Head of the Magnus Institute, recording statement…”_

..........................................

Jon’s third cigarette of the night fell from his lips in time with the soft ‘click’ of the tape recorder, his breath catching in his throat. 

No, that… he must have heard something wrong. He grabbed it quickly, his hands slightly shaky as he held the rewind for just a moment. 

_~~Click.~~ _ _“-ave something more concrete for you._

_Good Luck, Jon;_ **_I-_ **

_Stay safe.”_

He choked back a noise deep in the back of his throat. He held the player to his chest, feeling the telltale itch of tears behind his eyes. 

Rewind. _~~Click.~~_ _“Good Luck, Jon;_ ** _I-_** _”_

He swore he could hear the rest, or maybe he just wanted to. Wanted the eye to whisper in his ear, wanted to just **Know** how the sentence was really meant to end, wanted to run right up to Martin all holed up in that ~~sorry excuse for a sea captain’s~~ office and pull the words right out of his lips. 

_“Good Luck, Jon; I-_

_Stay safe.”_ ~~_Click._ ~~

Jon felt the first cracks of a smile— a _real_ smile, something it felt like he hadn’t done in months. Warm tears spilled down his pockmarked cheeks; a reminder he was still human. He whispered to the quiet air, his voice soft and dripping with longing, with hope, with truth, as if he just _felt_ it enough that the world, that _Martin_ , would hear him. 

**“I love you too, Martin.”**


End file.
